Wallace. Nineteen.
'Cause we are broken
What must we do to restore
Our innocence
And oh, the promise we adored
Give us life again
'Cause we just wanna be whole
Part of Suborgatory RP. Not Kristen Stewart. *tears*
A Trophy Father’s Trophy Son | Sleeping with Sirens
Agnes smiled a thank you to the brunette, placing her bag down by the chair before taking a seat. She looked up at the girl next to her, wanting to say something but deciding against it at the last second - she didn’t seem to want to talk to anyone, especially her.
Agnes bit her lip, flipping open her book to the back page - something she was in the habit of doing while reading was reading the last sentence. To her, it doesn’t ruin a book as much as it makes it more interesting. She always seems to think that if you read the last page, you’ll be interested in what happens to get to that point. Agnes knows people think it’s wrong to do but she doesn’t care, she’s not asking others to do it.
As she finished the first chapter of her book, Agnes looked back up at the girl. She noticed the book in her hands wasn’t familiar and was curious, so she finally talked to the girl. “So what are you reading? I’ve never seen that book before, I don’t think,” Agnes said, putting a bookmark to mark her page before setting it down on the table. She turned over to face the girl, smiling and waiting for the girl to respond.
Wallace was sick of the book. She’d read all the passages, at least, more than once. It didn’t comfort her anymore. Why would it? The girl guessed she was too far deep. Talking about it wouldn’t help—it was a tactic she’d tried many times before, not very many, actually, and only to a composition notebook. She always forgot it couldn’t write back. It couldn’t give her advice; and when it was found, by her dad, he would ponder her words. The notebook itself would say more to other people then it did to herself. Hopefully it couldn’t say why.
The girl sighed. Thinking wasn’t gonna help anything. It would just make everything that more unbearable. If only she could stop thinking. Or just stop over-thinking. It would never happen.
She shook her head; shaking her thoughts. The brunette would focus on the words on the page. Though they were swirling in her head—the words—telling her that her decisions weren’t so different from the characters; that her decisions were bad. Altering. That she couldn’t just leave and be forgotten. Life didn’t work like that.
At long last, Wallace lost herself in the words. They were heavy and strangling, but it was what she needed: a dose a reality. A heavy dose that said choices had consequences. And that those consequences were serious. She could take it. Her choice had always been made; just never acted on. Soon, it would be. Finally.
The blonde sitting across from her took the brunette out of her stupor. Clearing her throat—it hurt—she explained. ”Mostly, it’s about a family, the type we don’t have here, comas and accidents, tragedies.” That was the best she could explain it.
I see.
The end does come, and when it needs to. If it hasn’t come already, it probably means that you should stick this out.
The girl shook her head. If anything, the pink-haired—girl didn’t listen to her at all… She had just prattled on about several of the reasons Wallace shouldn’t commit, but in reality, the girl—they hadn’t exchanged names yet; Wallace didn’t want to know her name, anyway, because then, she would have been a name and a face, and that was not something she wanted, the handful of people who knew her name was enough—just had made her want to commit more.
No one listened to her, and, though she didn’t use her voice often, even when she did no bothered listening to her. If she felt the need to count all the reasons why, that would be one of them. The brunette shook her head, leaving those thoughts in the back of her head. “Let me guess… You’re one of those believers in it gets better, right?” From her experience, it didn’t and it probably wouldn’t change. Not for her.
Okay, whatever you say. I did say earlier that I was in your position a while back. Except it got worse. I got into drugs and alcohol and self harm.
I won’t give you sympathy, then, if that’s what you want.
But… it’s different for me.
It’s useless to do anything before. I just want the end… to come.
Oh, I remember I’ve heard people talk about her work. I always thought they sounded depressing so never really read them.
I like ‘em. They’re…. different….
